Four Years in Philly Change a Man.

languid tendrils act as sallow rivers,
drifting by the word, on shore, to lands remade,

emaciated bodies of long dead fingers
point nail first toward leaning gothic towers,

the budding infernal skyscrapers of future torment,
innately understanding what sorrow is to come, what sadness,

remain vexed, unchanging, unaltered, familiar, leaves like
charred bones sift, dance, retreat against their faceless remorse,

and carry on to windy terraces across the concrete mess of ground
that once played green and long and smelled of spring, sweet,

trudging off south, I am a shrinking ghost, there in leather soled shoes,
bent to a final destination, a shimmering illusion, one I've left behind,

to wallow, to cry, to fade